


Something Completely Different / The Naming of Cats

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, Gen, Humor, Kittens, M/M, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Assistance urgently</i>
  <br/>
  <i>required. Come at once.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I'll buy you dinner.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>SH</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Completely Different / The Naming of Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

**Something Completely Different**

_Assistance urgently_  
required. Come at once.  
I'll buy you dinner.

_SH_

 

The promise of food rarely means anything good, so John begs off the remainder of his shift on grounds that he's feeling under the weather. Fortunately, he doesn't have to fake it (much), as he'd been up until five in the morning, and Sarah had told him on his way in that he looked like death warmed over (twice). By the time John reaches Bart's, he's missed Mike for the day, so there's no chance of any diversion should what he finds in the mortuary turn out be completely unmanageable.

John stops in the doorway, trying to process what he sees.

Sherlock is examining a corpse's teeth with his magnifier, Molly is collecting samples of God-knows-what from under its toenails, and there are _kittens_ wandering aimlessly about their feet, mewling pitifully. There are four of them, and they can't be any more than three or four weeks old. One is huddled next to Molly's stockinged ankle, apparently terrified, and the other three are busy either playing with Sherlock's untied shoelaces or trying to climb his trouser legs. It's cuter than it ought to be.

"A little help?" he asks, not looking up. He obviously means the kittens.

John doesn't waste any time crossing the room to crouch next to Sherlock at the gurney, holding out a tentative hand to the inquisitive calico. She sniffs at John suspiciously, gives a soft chirp, and then butts her head up under his palm. John grabs her, along with the other two, who object loudly to being removed from their playthings. John doesn't bother with the kitten crouched beside Molly, as it seems quiet and mostly well-behaved. Or, again, terrified. It's hard to tell.

"Would you mind explaining?" John asks, struggling to keep the kittens balanced in his arms. The calico has crawled under his coat, where it's purring loudly, possibly with intent to sleep, but the other two are fussing at each other with claws drawn.

"Aren't they sweet?" Molly asks, tweezering something miniscule into a plastic baggie. "I found them on my way in. Somebody had just left them under a hedge about a block from my flat. I couldn't have left them; they'd have frozen."

"And your superior doesn't have any problem with this?" asks John, incredulously. He's never _minded_ animals, but he prefers not to have them thrust upon him without warning.

"He doesn't know," Molly says, biting her lip. "He's on holiday already."

"I see," John says. The calico does, indeed, seem to be asleep, and the other two have settled down to alternately staring up at him and kneading at his coat.

"I thought we might take one," says Sherlock, offhandedly.

"You thought we might _what_?"

"Take one," Sherlock repeats, snapping shut his magnifier and rising. He reaches out and scratches behind the ears of the pair in John's arms. "Molly's landlord won't take kindly to four, but she thinks she could persuade him to let her keep two. She thinks she's already found a home for one of them, not counting our offer."

" _Our_ offer?" John echoes. "Sherlock, have you discussed this with Mrs. Hudson?"

"She'll raise the rent by fifty quid a month," Sherlock replies.

John would like to strangle Sherlock, but the kittens make that nigh on impossible.

"Please say you'll take one, at least for now," Molly begs.

Under his breath, Sherlock is muttering about fucking idiots who abandon kittens.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," John sighs. "All right."

"The one inside your coat will do," Sherlock says. "If that's all right with Molly?"

"Yep," Molly says, scooping up the black kitten at her feet. "This girl's mine."

John studies the two awake in his arms. They're white with black patches.

"Who's taking one of these lucky fellows?"

"Priyanka," Molly says. "She works in reception."

Sherlock, who appears to be done with whatever he was doing, takes one of the black and white kittens away from John. It promptly climbs up Sherlock's scarf and attempts to settle itself on Sherlock's shoulder as he wanders over to bin his gloves. Sherlock takes it down and tucks it into the crook of his elbow, as if kitten-handling were par for the course in his line of work. Maybe he's had loads of cases dealing with cats.

"Excellent," he says, smiling at Molly. It feels genuine this time, not his usual faking-it. "We'll leave you with these three," he says, taking the other black-and-white away from John and setting both of them down on the floor. They skitter over to Molly's feet, their wide, wary eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"Right, then," John says, prodding the warm lump in his coat. It mews.

"We'll be off," Sherlock tells Molly. "Happy Christmas."

"To you, too," she says, and then, when they're nearly out the door, "Let me know what you name her! And tell me what she thinks of Mrs. Hudson!"

"Pain in the arse," John mutters, but the truth is that the little calico is awake now and peering up at him with huge, intelligent green eyes, and he thinks he might be just a little bit in love. Sherlock scratches behind her ear, winking.

"Doesn't suit her," he says. "We'll discuss it over dinner."

**The Naming of Cats**

They don't head to dinner first, because John finds it necessary to point out to Sherlock that, no matter where they go, a kitten, even one as polite as the tiny calico asleep in his coat, probably won't be welcome on the premises.

"We could go to Angelo's," Sherlock suggests, but John can tell by the way he shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets that he's already accepted defeat. "We haven't gone in at least a fortnight, and the staff aren't likely to mind."

"No, but the other patrons _are_. We'd do well to stay on Angelo's good side."

"It was an accident," Sherlock insists. "I'd had no intention—"

"—of spilling a pocketful of potentially hazardous tissue samples on the floor, I _know_ ," John finishes for him. "We're probably on the dining equivalent of a no-fly list."

"They were _bagged_ and _labeled_ ," Sherlock mutters. "And in no danger of thawing."

Inside John's coat, the calico stirs, tentatively poking her head out to peer at them.

"If they _hadn't_ been labeled," says John, wryly, "we might've been in the clear."

" _She's_ not labeled," Sherlock points out petulantly, indicating the kitten.

"Sherlock, we'll be lucky if we can find a cabbie who'll let us take her."

"Then put her back to sleep, because I'm not walking the whole way back to Baker Street," Sherlock tells him, turning up the collar of his coat. "It's freezing."

John knows that the first thing they ought to do is take the kitten to a vet, but it's nearly six o'clock in the evening, and he can't imagine that a standard check-up on a seemingly healthy kitten would count as an after-hours emergency. It takes them ten minutes to coax the calico back to sleep by way of petting and scritching, during which time John watches Sherlock's delighted expression with no small amount of wonder. Their silent cab ride to Baker Street is interrupted only by the kitten's loud, content purring, which the driver thankfully can't hear over the sound of the engine.

When they arrive, Mrs. Hudson is waiting for them.

"Oh, let me _see_ her!" she exclaims, holding open the door.

John unzips his coat once they're inside, handing the sleepy-eyed kitten over into Mrs. Hudson's care. She struggles a little bit at first, mewling in distress, and John can't help but wince as her needle-sharp claws catch in the chiffon of Mrs. Hudson's blouse. But Mrs. Hudson pays the damage no mind, instead gathering the calico to her chest, murmuring, " _Shhh_ , _shhh_." The kitten calms at this, yawning, and tilts her head up to study the newest human in her life. She touches her nose to Mrs. Hudson's chin.

"She reminds me of our Gladys when she was small," says Mrs. Hudson. "That cat lived almost twenty years. She was the best mouser we ever had."

Sherlock clears his throat. "About the rent—"

John wants to clap a hand over Sherlock's mouth, but it's too late for that.

Mrs. Hudson sighs, exasperated, but continues scratching behind the kitten's ears.

"I'll give you a month's free trial," she says. "In the meantime, get poor John some supper, Sherlock, for crying out loud! I can hear his stomach all the way over here."

"That's thoughtful of you," John says, reaching, "but we ought to get her settled."

"I'll take care of her," says Mrs. Hudson, retreating back the hall. "Just this once."

"Thank goodness," says Sherlock, tugging John along by the wrist. "I'm starving."

*****

"Cleo?" John asks, struggling to wind some noodles around his chopsticks. "Harry kept a calico koi out in the garden pond when we were kids. That was its name."

"Are you implying," Sherlock asks, "that she reminds you of a _fish_?"

"No," protests John, weakly, "but—"

"Your lack of creativity with regard to important matters never fails to astonish."

"Fine," John says, stabbing his chopsticks in for another go. " _You_ name her."

"But we both ought to have a say," Sherlock points out. "She's _ours_."

John covers his eyes with his free hand, applying pressure to his temples with pinkie and thumb. Sherlock's public displays of affection are far more often verbal than physical, and they never fail to catch him off his guard. He sighs.

"What sort of a name appeals to you most? Simple? Elaborate? Old-fashioned?"

"It's not a question of what appeals. It's a question of what _fits_."

"She sleeps a lot," replies John, laughing. "But that's hardly helpful."

"She's young," Sherlock reminds him. "She'll grow out of that. She seems intelligent."

"Might turn mischievous," John murmurs, frowning. "Doesn't bode well for the rent."

"She's already quite attached to _you_. Didn't trust Mrs. Hudson at first. Wise."

"She's only a few weeks old, and you're saying she's wise?"

Sherlock hums, and it's a sound of neither agreement, nor disagreement.

"Hypatia? No, that's morbid," he sighs. "And she doesn't look at _all_ like a Minerva."

John taps the edge of his dish thoughtfully. "Mo? After Molly. She _did_ rescue them."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Ridiculous," he snorts.

"There's nothing wrong with namesakes," says John, somewhat defensively.

"It's a kitten," Sherlock replies. "Not an infant."

 _Thank God_ , John thinks. _We'd never manage_.

"She's lucky," Sherlock murmurs. "If this were ancient Rome, she'd be called Felicia."

"My turn to object," John says. "She _is_ lucky, but that sounds ridiculous."

"Yes, it does," Sherlock agrees, and leaves it at that.

They finish eating in silence. Sherlock pays the tab without any hint of resentment, however, and John breathes a sigh of relief as Sherlock takes his arm once they're outside. What's gotten into Sherlock, he can't guess, but this much is certain: he's more taken with the kitten than he'll ever let on, and if Sherlock can find room in that inexplicable heart of his even after letting John in, then so be it.

"She's upstairs," Mrs. Hudson whispers, seeing them in. "Poor little dear, all tuckered out. I've sorted out a litter pan and some food with the help of that nice couple next door. They've got a tabby, you know. Aslan. He hunts birds in my garden."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says. She's gone again before John can speak.

The cardboard box is lined with shredded up flannels (an old pair of the ill-fated Mr. Hudson's pyjamas, perhaps), and the kitten has made herself a nest of them. She's asleep on her back with her front paws drawn up under her chin. They stand and watch her for several minutes. Finally, Sherlock exhales, turns, and kisses John.

"What was that for?" John asks, tracing the line of Sherlock's jaw.

"Humoring me," murmurs Sherlock, and then, with a kiss slower and more lingering than the first, _Bed_. John had never supposed that assenting to a pet would earn him romantic credit. Good to remember. Perhaps Sherlock will want a fish tank next.

"I'm taken with her, too," John says. "It's not just you."

"No," Sherlock murmurs, frowning, and the mood dissolves a little. "Not just us."

"Of course, of course," says John, a touch impatiently. "Molly and Mrs. Hudson, too."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, smiling the way he does when he's been clever.

"Out with it," John prompts, poking him in the ribs.

"And you're right, there's nothing wrong with namesakes."

John raises an eyebrow. "What—Gladys?"

"Precisely," says Sherlock, pecking John on the lips, and then, aloud this time, " _Bed_."


End file.
